Joker Without a Cause
by JayDeacats
Summary: Our main character continuously finds herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, never, it seems, able to get away from the Batman Joker drama. It's not too bad, it keeps her mind off her troubled past. (This story follows the movie's plot to an extent, written from the view of an outsider who has interactions with the Joker. Some scenes from the film, some scenes not.)
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: Welcome to chapter one! I'm glad to see you've made it this far, perhaps you'll make it a bit further and read on. As I said in the description, I'm following the movie, starting chapter one the same as scene one. Hope everyone enjoys and sorry for any mistakes I've missed.**_

I stand with the thin soles of my old flats stuck to the pavement. Shoulders bump past mine, but I can't bring myself to move forward. C'mon, girl. Get it together. My feet tear away from the sidewalk like velcro and I trudge with false confidence into the Gotham National Bank. To the outside viewer, I am simply an average woman going to make a modest deposit in this common bank, on this regular day. The cash in my bag? Stolen? No way! Look at me, do I look like a thief? Of course not!

With the average height of five foot five, the simple pixie cut with undyed, brown hair, and the practical flats under my unassuming skirt and blouse, no eyes will be drawn to the pear shaped woman with a wad of cash that used to fill the space in the register at chain store she works at. I know I need the money more than them, anyway. I walk a lie of certainty with a doubled heart rate, but my facade of strength hides my fear. My anxiety builds as the line to the teller shortens slowly and steadily. Let's get this over with.

"How may I help you?" a bored man asks the same line as if he's repeated it his entire life. I gulp down a small knot of tension to keep it from escaping in my words.

"Hello, yes, I'd like to-" my voice is cut off by sudden echoing bangs, a noise any citizen of Gotham would recognize: gunshots. My first thought is that they've caught me even before I can complete the crime, but I am corrected when two-or three, I'm not really counting-men in unsettling, yet oddly alluring with unconventional charm, clown masks.

They yell, but their commands are distorted by the ringing gunshots and startled screams bouncing off the high ceilinged building. As teens do in highschool, I follow the crowd and throw myself to the ground. I sit with my back to the counter and hide my purse behind me. With a start I quickly stash my silver pendant under my clothes; I don't want to risk drawing the robbers to it.

I look around to terrified and sometimes weeping faces of the other citizens trapped in the bank. I feel calm. I'm not sure why, maybe it's just that my body used up all the adrenalin it had already when I was trying to pull off my little crime. I'm tempted to laugh. If those clown men knew how incredibly silly I was compared the whole shabang they're pulling off, even they'd laugh. I bite my bottom lip to repress the uprising giggle fit fighting to the surface.

"Obviously we don't want you doing anything with your hands other than holding on for dear life." a gravely voiced male tells us as I watch a bomb forced into the hands of a man who indeed held it for dear life, as his hold was the only thing keeping him from being next to me and being next to me, her, her and him at the same time. The clown handing out the bombs had a very angry mask.

Fat frowning lips lined with a blue five o'clock shadow, perfectly arched brows painted above angry eyes smeared with red, all on top of a surprisingly well dressed man. My nervous giggles rise suddenly when I notice the very mean clown face decorated with a silly red dot on the tip of his caricature like nose. My lips twists against my will into a humorous grin with huff of laughter squeezing between clown turns to me and I immediately regret my lack of self control. He shuffles his squated figure in front of me with a cocked head. His speaking is muffled behind his plastic disguise.

"You like to laugh, cutie?" he asks, his words sobering me, but also somehow stimulating my urge to giggle. "Me too." I just can't help it; I've always loved clowns. That whole Pennywise clown murderers always seemed silly to me. My teeth clamp onto my bottom lip and I wish for the strength to drop my eyes; the mask gets funnier and funnier the more I look at it. I now notice to circle blush marks on the exaggerated white cheekbones. Why's he blushing, what's he embarrassed about? My eyebrows pinch together at the ridiculous questions in my mind.

"Oh, I see." the clown continues cartoonishly, taking note of my contorting face. His voice is very- I'm not sure. It's not growling like his friends, it's like he's smiling behind that mask. I don't know if he is, but I do know it's a voice I can't imagine forgetting. "You want a bomb too, don't ya?" he asks eagerly. I feel my face stricken and reflexes kick in. I shake my head and sit on my hands like a child hiding something they know they shouldn't have.

"No, no thank you." I tell him quietly, not wanting to gain anymore attention to myself. Now it's his turn to laugh; it comes out like a jackhammer of giggles, all high pitched an undoubtedly insane.

"C'mon, girl." he urges through chuckles, grabbing at my arm with a warm leather gloved hand. Another gunshot echoes through the bank, along with shattering glass and the sound of a body falling; someone's been shot. The man releases me and slides behind a desk, the other clown taking cover just as fast, scuttling to reach his partner. Another shotgun shot fires at the desk where a clown's head narrowly darts from view, blasting wood splinters and sending papers flying into the air, only to flutter back down. Before they have a chance to settle, another shell explodes from the barrel.

"Hey!" a different man yells aggressively, tugging at my curiosity enough to search for its source rather than ducking down for cover like my fellow citizens. I hear the shotgun cock and my eyes meet the face of the manager of Gotham National Bank; who knew he could shoot like that? I watch the two not dead clowns meet as the bank manager continues shooting and yelling.

"Do you have any idea who you're stealing from?" he demands, never lowering his weapon. "You and your friends are dead!" he promises, approaching fast. My eyes shoot back to the criminals. They converse quietly and, with a nod, ready their guns to pounce. To my surprise and apparently that of the less sharply dressed of the two, the clown with the strange voice stands and shoots the manager as casually as someone might wave to a friend. The bullet pegs him in the abdomen and leg.

"Where did you learn to count?!" the other man says, rising from his cover and rushing off to the volt room. Now in the ringing silence of frightened people, the suited clown's footsteps carry through the air as he stalks between the rows of people. I swallow, the danger of the situation steadily becoming real. My spit gurgles in my throat for a second before going down my esophagus. I bite the side of my cheek when I receive a nasty side eye from the man to my right for the noise. I mean, really? Sorry I made a gross noise, but gimme a break! How could that kind of thing even matter to him in a situation like this? I close my eyes and breath in carefully, not daring a sound that might summon the clown.

Speaking of, I realize he's forgotten to give me a bomb when I notice the eyes of other people noticing. I lock eyes with a few of them. What? Do they want me to jump him or something? What kind of idiot do they think I am? I look away, my eyes drifting for something to lock onto other than pleading faces. My hands are beginning to go numb under my weight, but I must not move them; I must not move at all. Must not move. I repeat this over and over.

The phrase stops abruptly when my wandering eyes are met by the funny looking clown. Dammit, I don't care what anyone says, but clowns are funny. The man cocks his head at me again as though intrigued, and I pray to god he doesn't give me a bomb. Before he can, his partner renters to the room dragging two duffel bags surely full of cash behind him. They both exit and repeat the action until a modest pile of six bags are slung together.

"That's a lot of money." one comments in a scratchy voice. "If that Joker guy was so smart he would've had us bring a bigger car." he observes. Joker? Never heard of him before; I wonder if Batman is on top of this guy. I huff another half chuckle. Probably not considering the situation at hand. I feel eyes watch me and I know that that man heard me just now. I freeze, knowing that if I look to him, I wouldn't able to hold back in the face of a clown.

"I'm bettin' the Joker told you to kill me as soon as we loaded the cash." the same man says, cocking his pistol in the other man's face. I can't help but watch the serious turn in events. Despite everything, those goofy smiles are testing my strength.

"No, no, no, I kill the bus driver." the accused man defends himself quietly and slowly.

"Bus driver?" the other asks, still with his gun pointed. "What bus driver?" his voice is angry, but I have a feeling having his question answered a second later didn't please him considering the bus driver being referred to crashes through the bank wall, carrying death on swift wings. The remaining clown leans back in mild surprise. The school bus parks and its emergency exit back door is swung open to, huge surprise, another clown mask.

"School's out, time to go." the newcomer jokes. "He's not gettin' up, is he?" he questions with a glance without real concern as the money bags are quickly tossed into the vehicle. "That's a lotta money." he grunts greedily. "What happened to the rest of the guys?" yet another question answered immediately with death, answered with a bullet in the chest. This guy's serious business. The remaining clown strides forward and for a second I'm afraid he's coming for me to deliver the long awaited for me, not so much for the bank manager, the clown approaches the wounded man.  
"Think ya smart, huh?" the manager grunts with effort, "The guy who hired you will just do the same to you. Criminals in the town used to believe in things. Honor, respect. Take a look. What do you believe in, huh? What do you believe in?!" he shouts the last words. Despite his quietness, I can hear the clown clearly.

"I believe whatever doesn't kill you, simply makes you" he speaks deliberately and firmly, making each word sink in before pulling the plastic from his face. "Stranger." he finishes strongly and I crane to see his face. For a moment, I think I might have mistaken the mask removal, but I see his face is smeared with paint. It doesn't look like facepaint-greasepaint, maybe? I only see for a moment before his back is turned to me and he strides to the bus. My eye catches a string from his coat pocket. I trace it back to the manager and gasp when I see it attached to a canister wedged between his jaws.

With a heavy thunk, the weapons and mask are chucked into the bus and the door slams closed. The engine revs and the wheels roll forward. Less than a yard is enough to pull the pin from the canister in the poor man's mouth. It emits a dangerous looking yellow gas. Police arrive seconds later and the situation is wrapped up surprisingly fast. Even deactivating the bombs went smoothly. At least the first few minutes did, I left as soon as I could; I suppose I'll just spend my cash on the rent or something. 

**_As with everyone fanfiction, I'm testing the waters. If anyone out there wants to see this updated, please let me know in the reviews or by following or favoriting. Also, please tell me of anything you find lacking or I should improve on. Thank you for reading!_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: Thank you guys for the reviews and for following and favoriting! That was super cool and I hope everyone keeps enjoying the story. This chapter is a bit short, but the next one is a bit long, so it balances, I think. So for any typos I've missed.**_

Weeks pass and the minor spike of excitement in my life falls flat, not to be rippled seemingly ever again. I quit my job before they could pin me with the stealing thing. It's no loss; that job was sucking the life out of me, not that there's much left anyway. Since the most interesting night of my life, I've been working as a waitress in an excruciatingly average restaurant. With my rent miraculously paid this month, and by miraculously I'm referring to my wad of stolen cash, I find my money lacking when it comes to living expenses. It's no big deal with this new job, though. At the end of the day, I sneak into the kitchen for dinner and, if I'm feeling frisky, a little for breakfast the next morning.

Another good thing about this new job are all of the eavesdropping possibilities that have been opened for me. This is even more useful than usual because not only is eavesdropping considered a sub genre of entertainment in my book, it's also good for hearing word of mouth about Batman and the Joker. Most of it's bull, but so is what they put in the news. I haven't made many friends since moving here, either, so the grapevine is all I have. Come to think of it, I probably should've made a close friend by now. I drop the thought from my mind when the word "Batman" taps me on the shoulder. I saunter to it's source, a chubby man, if you could call him that, no older than his twenties.

"I know I hit at least two guys." he tells a small group of listeners clustered around his booth. He sits with a couple other men that I don't bother looking at.

"But what about The Batman? What did he look like?" a woman asks, cleavage on display.

"Oh, he wasn't THAT great… he stopped them I guess, but only after we took out half of them." the pudgy guy, let's call him Pudge, continues bragging.

"Did you talk to him at all? Wasn't he grateful?" asked a wide-eyed teenager. Pudge's friends at the table laughed, while his mouth pulled down in a frown. I decide to speak up, hoping I was attractive enough to join the temporary crowd of groupies.

"What'd he say Pud- Pal?" I clamp my lips together, hoping he didn't catch on to the Pudge nickname I gave him. Don't laugh don't laugh; I pray for the strength. Pudge sighs and tells the growing group around the table the story as a child would when confessing that he had an "accident".

"He said 'Don't let me find you out here again.'" Pudge pauses.

"And?"

"And I told him we were just trying to help him. He told us that he 'doesn't need help.'" his friend cuts in, smirking like a jerk.

"Then I said "That's not my diagnosis."' he laughs and high fives someone I don't care about. Pudge continues the story.

"I asked him what gave him the right, what was the difference between me and him."

"Money, mostly." I answer. The smirking jerk laughs again and interjects.

"According to The Batman, it's the fact that he wasn't wearing hockey pants." a hardy round of laughing ended the conversation. I sigh and continue working. Not much of a story, pretty boring if you ask me. Not to mention Batman's weak joke. Ah well, I don't see the chances of any real information being gained from here anyway. The day passes without a whisper of The Batman or this mysterious Joker.

"You closin' up for the weekend?" Brandon or Brian asks me; I always get those names confused. This place has a weird policy of staying closed until Monday. It doesn't make any sense, it's just a waste of money. I shrug it off like I do all unimportant things.

"Planned on it, uh…?"

"Byron." he sighs, slightly offended. I laugh even though an apology would have fit the situation better. Disgruntled "Byron" leaves me the keys. Maybe this is why I don't have any friends. I laugh again; what does that kind of thing matter in the grand scheme of things, anyway? What does anything _really_ matter when you look at the big picture? I don't laugh. My fingers mindlessly wander to the silver cameo pendant around my neck. I trace the carving of a woman with roses in her hair.

Dad always said she was the spitting image of my mother on their wedding day. He bought it for her on their fifteenth anniversary, the last one they'd see together. My stomach reminds me I am hungry. I give the pendent a final squeeze and the restaurant a once over before leaving the wide dining area and receding into the kitchen like an old man's hairline.

The kitchen is smaller and almost entirely stainless steel, save for the white tile walls. A cold, sensible place for food. The dim fluorescent lighting only enhanced disposition of the atmosphere. Maybe it isn't that small; it already looks bigger without any people in it. At the moment, the area is only cluttered with baker's racks and other shelves and counters. That's a restaurant kitchen for you, I suppose. Now to the more important thing in here: the fridge. The silver door swings open smoothly and I exhale against the blast of cold air released.

Let's see here. Plenty of food I could microwave, or maybe I'll make a sandwich. I might just make a salad or eat some fruit; it's a little less work. Maybe I'll go the extra mile and cook a burger or something, or- Oh ho, is that booze I see? Champagne; close enough. I pull the bottle from the fridge, my hunger forgotten. Only the weight of my pendent on my chest and my mother and father are filling my brain. Let's see what we can do about that.

I remove the chilled bottle and close the industrial sized fridge. Alright. Step one: remove the foil. I use my fingernails to pick away at the golden foil wrapped around the neck of the dark green bottle. I peel away the thin metallic cover to reveal the silver wire hood twisted around the cork. Now, I'm not particularly savvy to the ways of opening champagne, but how hard could it be. Pop goes the cork; nice and simple, right? I guess I'll find out. I begin untying the wire and wonder if I'm supposed to shake it up. Let's just see if this'll open before taking any uncalled for measures.

I point the bottle away from me and plant my thumbs on the lip of the cork. I brace myself and push. With a bang, I've unsealed the bottle. I gasp in laughter went the cork flies into some glassware. Before I let the giggles burst forth, I hear the fizz rising from the champagne. My mouth blocks any further waste of the alcohol as the rapidly escaping drink flows down my throat, rippled by snorting enjoyment. I decide it's best to go ahead and drink the whole thing, then dispose of the evidence. At least, that's how I rationalized my alcoholic behavior.

 _ **Thanks you for reading and please tell me what you think. Please tell me if you think anything's missing or lacking. Please tell me if you like it so far! Thanks again, everyone , for reading.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: Chapter three gets a bit more interesting. Last chapter was kinda dull, but this one is home to the infamous mob meeting scene. This chapter was fun to write, so I hope everyone enjoys it. Thank you so much for the reviews and to the people who followed and favorited. Chapter four coming soon; sorry for any typos.**_

A rattling metal on metal crash frightens me awake. I manage not to scream, my recently awakened body too disoriented. I blink rapidly in the darkness; I can't see anything. I feel the walls around me. They are enclosing and cold. I adjust my posture in my cramped little room where I sit with my spine bowed as far as possible without cracking. Jesus, where am I? My hip nudges something that feebly rolls less than an inch away, clearly unable to move smoothly across the crunchy surface of the floor. What am I sitting in? I pinch the mess between my fingers and feel it crunch and disintegrate. Oh man, I hope this isn't bugs or something. I tentatively smell the powder residue on my hand. It smells… burnt. Wait a second.

My memory comes back in freeze frames. The drinking to forget, the mild hysteria, the severe hysteria, the brief weeping, back to the hysteria, and finally to good ole' fashioned drunken fool. At least I had a good laugh, God knows there's never enough of those. The last thing I remember was feeling cold. I chuckle. My dumbass crawled into the oven for warmth. That explains most of it, but not that banging. Instinct tells me to stay hidden. I press my ear to the side of the stove.

I pick up plenty of shuffling about. It sounds like things are getting moved around and there's not much talking. I move my eyes to the the thread of light seeping through the crack around the door to my hiding spot. If I'm gonna adjust to peek through that, I'll need to do it while there's still a commotion.

It takes me an awkward nearly ten minutes to move my body to position that will work. Several times my knee or foot would clink the champagne bottle against the walls. Anyway I shifted, some part of me would end up being pressed against one of the sides of the incredibly small oven. I even had my cheek flattened against the cool metal and scooted across several inches before I finally managed to arrange my limbs and torso correctly. When all's said and done I dust off my hands and wipe the beads of sweat sprouting on my forehead. When my ears can't detect any noise, I fear they, whoever they are, have heard me. I'm relieved when a voice finally speaks.

"The hell is this?" no one answers. I listen closely, my eardrums straining. I pick up a steady stream of sound with no discernible words. I either open the oven to listen in better, or stay silent and safe. The phrase curiosity killed the cat comes to mind as I push forward the top of the oven door. From the mercy of all the God's in heaven, the hinges do not complain.

"A relatively small amount. Sixty eight million." A man says, though he sounds like he's coming in on speaker phone or something. Sixty eight million? As in dollars? What the hell am I in the middle of?

"Who stupid enough to steal from us?" another voice asks in a Russian accent.

"Two-bit whack job, wears a cheap purple suit and makeup. He's not the problem, he's a nobody." a different man says. That description is very familiar. He must mean the man from the bank robbery, The Joker. "Our problem is our money being tracked by the cops." the man continues.

"Thanks to 's well-placed sources we know that police have indeed identified our banks using marked bills and are planning to seize your funds today-" the distant speaker phone says. The man talks so fast about things I know nothing about, so I instead focus my efforts on observing the scene. I see the interior of the kitchen has been cleared out. Shelves and other appliances shoved against the wall to make room for a makeshift meeting desk.

There are quite a few more men than were talking. I can only see about half of them from my hiding spot. Not a bad spot, when I look at it. I have a clear view of one long side of the tables and both short ends. On the farthest short end, there is a television holding everyone's attention in the opposite direction of myself; I see the tv is the source of the distant voice. A Chinese man on the screen addresses the men.

"How soon can you move the money?" someone asks the television.

"I already have. For obvious reasons I couldn't wait for your permission. Rest assured, your money is safe." he replies with confidence and certainty. An inaudible whoosh of relief is released, only to be instantly sucked back in when unusual laughter begins echoing in the room. It is very sarcastic and uncomfortably growling. I take a second too long to discover its origin, as the man responsible passes by the partially agape oven. I watch a purple pair of slacks stalk by.

"And I thought that my jokes were bad." the voice continues. A voice I remember clear as day. This is the man I've been wondering about since the bank. So this is the Joker, it seems.

"Give me one reason I shouldn't have my boy here pull you head off?" a suited black man asks, anger edging his words. I watch "his boy" sit up, ready to pounce.

"How 'bout a magic trick?" the Joker disregards his threat casually. With his back to me, I can't see what he pulls from his coat pocket in the stunned silence. I see a second later as he slams a sharpened pencil into the table top with a bang. The Jokers purple gloved hands gesture dramatically around the upright pencil as a magician's might.

"I'm gonna make this pencil disappear." he tells his audience. Having enough of his games, an attacker strides forward. The Joker sidesteps the assault and grips the man's head and slings it forward face first. The echoing smack of skull on wood meets my ears.

"Tah-dah!" the Joker exclaims comically as the now deceased man slides off the table and crumples to the ground. "It's pahh," he adds a sound effect of amazement, "it's gone." he again gestures dramatically at his completed "magic" trick. I suppose the pencil did disappear. It disappeared into that unfortunate man's head. The men around him can't help but be impressed. As morbid and screwed up as it might be, I can't help it either.

"Oh, and by the way, the suit, it wasn't cheap. You outta know you bought it." the Joker informs the enraged black man who's entourage joins him in abandoning their chairs while the Joker cockily straightens his suit collar.

"Sit," the Russian accent commands the fuming man who slowly retakes his seat. "I want to hear proposition." The Joker points momentarily to the Russian as a supportive gesture to the command. As the man slowly lowers back into his chair, the Joker introduces his scheme.

"Let's wind the clocks back a year. These cops and lawyers wouldn't dare cross any of you." his finger sweeps across the air, including every man in the wide gesture. He pauses as if confused, shaking his head slightly, causing his greasy greenish hair to wave slightly like seaweed in the ocean. "I mean, what happened? Did you balls drop off?" he asks sincerely. "Hmm?" he implores for an answer. "You see, a guy like me-"

"A freak." the same black man interrupts with harsh bitterness. Soft, polite sounding laughter follows.

"A guy like me," the Joker starts again, disregarding the disruption. I can hear the slight effort it takes and see his foot begin to bounce in tiny, unnoticeable movements. "Look, listen." he says tossing the previous thought away. I can only see the back of him, but at this point I notice he begins talking more with his hands, indicating various things.

"I know why you choose to have your little," he clears his throat, "group therapy sessions," humor ruffles the smoothness of his words, "in broad daylight. I know why you're afraid to go out at night." he exhales and let's the suspense build. "The Batman." he growls.

"See, Batman has shown Gotham your true colors, unfortunately. Dent, he's just the beginning. And as for uh, the television's so called plan," he points the the Chinese man, "Batman has no jurisdiction. He'll find him and make his squeal." the leather of his gloves squeak quietly as his fists clench together. "I know the squealers when I see them, and" his point returns to the tv, finishing his sentence.

"What do you propose?" the Russian asks as the man on the tv shuts off his camera.

"It's simple, we, uh, kill the Batman." the Joker says, brushing a lock of hair back. He is met with disbelieving laughter and jeers.

"If it's so simple, why haven't you done it already?" someone out of my sight range asks calmly.

"If you're good at something, never do it for free." the Joker answers wisley.

"How much you want?" it's the Russian asking now.

"Uhh… half." the Joker is met with a stronger wave of laughter.

"You're crazy." someone in the crowd sighs.

"I'm not. No, I'm not." the Joker pops the 't' on the second 'not'. "If we don't deal with this now, soon," he shrugs at a loss, "little, uh, Gambol here won't be able to get a nickle for his grandma." the black man called Gambol angrily slaps his meaty palms to the table top, his legs shoving back his chair.

"Enough from the clown!" he bellows and, in the same motion, the entire room rises, including the Joker.

"Ah ta ta ta ta." the Joker's warning speeding from his lips, casually opening the left side of his jacket to reveal-I can't really tell. I see his thumb is hooked with a string attached to whatever jangles in his coat. "Let's not _blow_ this out of proportion." he again jiggles the thread and sashays to give the entire room a good look. It almost seemed like he was trying to specifically show me the grenades hanging from the wall of his purple coat. _Grenades?_ More importantly, did he just make a pun? I manage to keep my chuckle as only a breath escaping my nose. No, the actual most important thing is that my percent chance of dying young and single just spiked dramatically. Again I can't help but wonder if even that, the most important thing, _really_ matters.

"You think you can steal from us and just walk away?"

"Yeah-"

"I'm puttin' the word out. 500 hundred grand for this clown dead, a million alive, so I can teach him some manners first." Gambol snarls. The Joker looks ready to address the threat, but instead turns to the rest of the group instead.

"Alright, so, listen: why don't you give me a call when you wanna start taking things a little more seriously. Here's my card." he fishes a playing card from his pocket. He holds it away from himself for a second, allowing me to see what it is, before placing onto the table. I silently shut the oven door and press both my hands to my mouth. His card; get it? My body quakes with silent laughter that panic ends as a muffled yet shrill giggle pierces its way through my apparently useless efforts of suppression. My heart beat drums loudly in my ears and I remain frozen for at least five minutes, maybe more, I couldn't exactly read my watch.

Even when my heartbeat settles, I don't move. Not until I fear losing feeling in my legs forever do I, again, push open the oven door. The tables are gone, the television is gone. I slowly, very slowly, open the oven a touch more and peer cautiously around like a tortoise after a storm. The men are gone and so is any evidence that they were ever here. I decide everyone's gone and begin to speed up my pace; I would move faster if my dead legs were any good to me. I scarcely have the arm strength to myself forward.

I realize I don't need it when I discover that I was wrong; not everyone was gone. With the oven door ajar completely, as soon as my arm meets fresh air, it is grasped roughly and jerked painfully.

"There you are." that unmistakable voice fills my ears. I whimper from his fingers digging into my arm. "I knew I heard a little mouse sneaking around in here. You know, people don't like little mice in their kitchens."

I manage to stay inside the oven, my free hand clutching against the wall. The Joker pulls me out slowly, my sweaty hand is slick against my last defense. "Most people, even go so far as to _kill_ the little rodents." he says with a smile.

My body flops to linoleum; I know it is 100% impossible to get away from him, but that doesn't stop me. I have one free arm and two dead legs; the best I can do is sit upright. He doesn't loosen his grip and crouches in front of me. I wonder if he's still wired with explosives. His red painted smile twists up to reveal his yellow, yet oddly straight, teeth.

"So," he says like someone trying to break the ice, "You must be dying for some answers. All that," he rolls his eyes as if referring to high school drama, " _stuff_ must be really confusing to you, but to someone else," he raises his shoulders, "it probably makes a lot more sense. One of this city's fine policeman- or woman-" he quickly corrects as if I made a face of offense, "would have a very good idea of what to do with the information inside that cute, little," he places and index finger in the center of my forehead with slight pressure, "mousey brain of yours." I gulp and find my mind in a shockingly rational and clever state. I suppose one's mind will usually find its way there under enough stress.

"I don't know of any police officer that would trust the judgment a woman who passed out drunk on stolen champagne before waking up inside of an oven. Then again, I don't know many stupid policemen."

"Oh, I know plenty…" he mumbles, thinking. Hopefully thinking of not murdering me on the spot. His face slowly morphs before my eyes, features twisting uncontrollably. A low, steady laughter begins forming until it's high pitched tone echoes around the kitchen. He laughs for several minutes, his hand dropping from my arm, before speaking.

"You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time?" he asks, still recovering from his cackling. I nod, beginning to feel that maybe, just maybe, he won't kill me. "Sorry, doll, I don't believe in coincidences. Don't think I don't remember you." I gasp a little with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. He remembers me from the bank? I'm flattered! I shouldn't be, but how can I help it? A nobody noticed by a somebody, how exciting! The Joker reads my face carefully.

"Yes, I do. I remember you." He says thoughtfully with no sign of laughing left in his voice. I watch his eyes, shockingly light in contrast to his makeup, search my face. "But you're not scared." he narrows his gaze.

"No, I guess I'm not." I drop my eyes, just realizing it myself. Why aren't I scared? I'm about to die, but I'm not frightened. "Are you going to kill me?" I ask.

"Would that scare you?"

"I… I don't know. I don't think so." I'm not lying, but that can't be true; I should be scared. Maybe I'm the freak here.

"Then there's no point, is there?" he rises to his feet, straightening his suit. I look up at him questioningly. What? From what I've seen, this is very 'unjoker' of him to do. "No one trusts a woman who can't hold her liquor." he smirks, darting his tongue across his slips and scars.

"Besides, it'd be a waste to kill someone who appreciates my jokes. I heard your little, uh, mouse squeak. And I really hope I never see you again, if I do," he shrugs as if he has no other choice "I'll have to kill you." he turns to leave but jerks to a stop after one step. "You've got a little, uh," he points to his face, "nevermind." he waves me away and is gone. My hand swipes over my cheeks and I look to see if anything's rubbed off on my palm.

I gasp at my smeared black hands. And arms. And legs and clothes and undoubtedly face. I rush to the sink and start rinsing my hands. I meet eyes with my distorted reflection and burst out laughing. I keep laughing and laughing until tears are streaming down my face, cutting paths through the grime, and I'm crippled over in laughter.

There are finger streaks of black swiped across my forehead and handprints stamped over my mouth. My right cheek is entirely smudged and my left streaks toward my nose. I fall to the floor, body wrought with giggles. I just narrowly avoided death with a face dirtier than a pig's.

 ** _Hope everyone enjoyed, please tell what you think in the reviews and follow and favorite if you liked!_**


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN: This chapter's pretty long in comparison to the others, but I don't think any will have a problem with it. Thank you summerofthe1975 for your review on my last chapter. It was so incredibly nice and I really appreciate the feedback and support. I'm glad you enjoyed. :) Sorry everyone if I missed a typo or anything. If there are any glaring errors, please let me know, thanks!**_

I quit my job again. I was probably going to be fired after my drunken stunt, anyway. Turns out, I did it just in time. A week or so after I quit, the owner was charged with aiding the mob and the place was shut down and put up for sale. It was a shock to everyone; it suddenly made sense why the restaurant was kept closed on weekends.

As the professional job jumper that I am, I was able to pick another one up pretty quickly. Now, I work at a bar. It's a step up, really. There's nothing biker or rapey about this bar. It's all pool tables and the customers wear suits and smoke cigarettes; it's classy, if you can get past the breathing cancer thing. Just something about the clacking of pool balls and the sound of them rolling across felt makes the atmosphere feel professional somehow. I work proudly as a bartender, barmaid, barkeep, and if i'm feel extra fancy, a bar manager. I've had it pretty easy so far, no one's started any fights or ordered overly complicated drinks.

"Another scotch?" I ask at the sound of glass clicking onto the bar top.

"Yeah." the woman answers, laying her head down on her folded arms. She's been here since three, but has only had a few drinks. She mostly just sat there gloomily.

I pour her another glass of straight scotch. I will admit, she holds her alcohol better than me. I wasn't lying about the clientele of the bar; she is wearing a pantsuit, but that somehow makes her look even sadder. The real rush doesn't come for at least another hour and, based on all movies and television shows, part of the bartender's job is to chat and talk about guests' problems. Let's give this a go, then; I've got nothing better to do.

"So, uh, what's… what's, ya know. What's 'on your mind', what's 'gotcha down', and all the other versions of the question." I ask not very smoothly, setting her drink next to her elbow.

"Look, I know it's what bartenders 'do', but it's personal." she tells me, taking the drink and downing it. Serves me right for trying to be friendly. I want to laugh; is it really so hard for me to be liked? I know it wasn't a personal rejection, but I still feel kinda bad. I bite my tongue, the dull pain containing my smile and urge to laugh.

"I'm sorry."

"Huh?" I ask, totally taken by surprise. "Oh, it's nothing." I shrug, "But if you stay much longer, I might need to take your keys."

She laughs bitterly. "That'd be a great closer for the evening." she smiles without humor. I remain silent, hoping that she's ready to spill her guts. I've grown increasingly curious over the course of the afternoon. What if she's just lost her job over a scandal with her boss. She denies it of course, but her husband demands her to explain her late hours. Here's the twist: her boss knows nothing of the overtime. Discovering that clearing her name was impossible, she comes out with the truth.

"I'm gay." she tells the microphone at the podium, the crowds of press go wild and her secretary timidly stands by her side, holding her lover's hand. Or, maybe she isn't the interesting one, maybe it's the other way around.

Her husband has been out long nights and not returned for days at a time. Finally, fed up, she confronts him.

She asks "Who's the other woman? Do you love her?" her second question broken, tears filling her eyes, but no; she must be strong. The kids are watching. Her husband looks her dead in the eye, loosening his tie.

"No, Susan, of course not. I don't love anyone but you and the kids. There is no other woman." he says and, with a movement like lightening, removes his tear away suit only to reveal his pirate's shirt and pants, all underneath a heavy galleon coat. She drops her eyes to his thick leather boots and looks up in time to see him place a large feathered at on his head. She wonders where the eyepatch came from.

"You liar!" she cries, knees feeling weak.

"Narrr, lassie! I told nary a lie! There is no other woman, _there are many!"_

"Hey!" a voice brings me back to reality, "Mind telling me what's so funny?" the woman glares; damn. I must have been grinning like an idiot without realizing. I'll admit, that was a pretty funny daydream.

"I'm sorry. My mind was somewhere else; I'll get you another drink."

"No, I've got to leave." she sighs, eyes down. She loops her purse around her wrist.

"I'm sorry, really-"

"Don't worry about it." she cuts me off, "Really, I've just had a rough day. It's the second time this month my husband's accused me of cheating."

"Are you?"

"What?" she sounds offended.

"Well, whether you're cheating or not cheating changes the situation completely."

"I'm faithful! He just never seems to trust me." she sighs again, retaking her seat.

"Maybe it's because you go to bars after work." I say without thinking, wiping out a glass like a bartender cliche. The woman chuckles.

"Yeah, maybe."

"You don't trust a woman who can't hold her liquor, so I suppose you have to trust one that can."

She chuckles again. "Where'd you hear something like that?" she smiles a real smile for the first time.

"I, uh, I'm not sure." I lie. The woman seems in higher spirits as she thanks me and leaves. I need to stop thinking about the Joker so much; he's made his way into my subconscious. I'm not sure what it is about him, but there's something. It's like his attitude towards the world really makes sense to me. Maybe I'm wrong, what do I know about the man, anyway? Except for the fact that he's definitely killed people without a problem.

The bell hanging above the bar entrance jingles cutely at the arrival of new customers. I shake my head. Time to get to work and keep the crazed killer out of my thoughts for as long as possible; hopefully that means forever.

Slowly but surely, the bar fills up with people. This is the busiest night I've ever worked and about ten times as many fruity drinks I've had to make. I may have lied my way into this job, but I'll be damned if I'm not a pro at making drinks. At few points this evening, I was asked to make something up for them. I always forget that I like my drinks stronger than most, which is probably why I can never get drunk without completely retarding my thoughts. Which again, is probably why I like them that way. Nameless drinks of my own concoction are abandoned, hardly sipped, but tips are left nonetheless. This job suits me far better than my last few.

I hear chalk scratch on the tip of pool cues and the quiet mumble of sophisticated chatter with the occasional laugh rising above the rest. I've never seen or heard of a fight in this bar, which is probably why I was able to be hired as bartender. With no security guards, I'm all that's left for breaking up any altercations. The crowd begins thinning at this point; the last of the tipsy men and women have left, letting me finally wipe down the dark glossy wood without another drink sloshed onto it instantly. All that remains are a few folks finishing up their pool games. My shift's about over, but I'm not allowed to leave until they do.

I clean up to pass the time, glancing over every few minutes. It won't hurt anyone if I make myself a quick drink; place is almost closed anyway. I won't let myself get drunk either, it's just one drink to make it through the evening. I take a sip of my overly alcoholic beverage. I know it's my own fault, all of this stupid self destructive behavior. I put myself in these situations. I can't help but smile. It's like I'm listening to my Dad; he was a therapist for a brief while in his youth. As a troubled teenager, his words never really made it to me. It's funny how they are now.

"It's almost like you're doing it on purpose, like a cry for help." he'd said when he caught me smoking. He was right, of course, but at the time, he just seemed like an over analyzing old man who couldn't get with the times. At the time, I wanted nothing but for him to leave and let me live my life. Now, the things I would do to have him back. I take a bigger sip and let my hand trace over my pendant. I miss them, but I need to grow the hell up and get over it. I down the remainder of my drink, pleased by the burning that lingered in my throat.

"Finish it up, you guys! It's closing time." I tell the last group of customers. Then let out a collective disappointed noise and finally leave less than five minutes later. I'm just glad I didn't have to call any cabs. I wash their cups, swiping a rag around the insides briefly and calling it good enough. I set the final glass upside down with the others when I hear the bell tickle. I huff, irritated and round the bar quickly.

"No, no, we're closed now you can't-" I nearly swallow my tongue. I almost collide into the man entering bar with his group of friends, all as tall and tough looking as he is, though, that's not what's scared me stiff; the man I was trying to kick out was the mobster Gambol. At least they're all wearing suits.

"Nah, I don't think you're closed yet." he hints, "Me and my boys here thought it'd be nice to play a little pool tonight. You wouldn't have a problem with that, would you?" he asks using polite words, only to have them contradicted by his tone.

"Uhm, no, I- that's fine, just make sure you lock up when you leave and drink responsibly." I say, trying to make a speedy getaway. What if he's brought the Joker with him? I'm trapped in by one of the towering bodyguards.

"Uh-uh, we ain't makin' our own drinks, so you better get behind that counter and start takin' orders. And Don't even think about callin' the cops, I'll bust a cap in your ass so fast you'll be dead after the first siren." he threatens flashing the gun at his hip. I nod and obey, taking my post. My last encounter was the closest I'd like to ever come with dying. I begin mixing the drinks they request. Last I checked, Gambol and the Joker weren't what you'd call friends, so chances are I'm in the clear. That is, if I can manage to not piss off Gambol before the night is out.

I spend most of my evening listening and watching pool game after pool game. These men drink less than I would have guessed. I've made about five drinks and I'm tempted to make another. At this rate, it probably won't matter whether I'm drunk or not. I start laughing to myself, managing to keep my voice from being heard. It actually wouldn't matter if I was shot in the head; there's no one to mourn for me. There's no one to miss me. My laughter slowly dies, like we all do eventually. My heart sinks low in my chest, too heavy to stay up. I lock eyes with a bottle of Jack Daniel's. It doesn't even occur to me that it might be a bad idea as I hold it by the neck and press it against my lips; I don't bother with a glass.

Approximately, I'm not exactly measuring, three shots later, I feel better. I'm nodding off a bit when the door jingles open again. I bolt upright and lean over the counter to greet the customers.

"Hello, welcome!" I say, wiping the bar to look important, "What can I do ya for?" I ask, plopping my down my elbow and resting my head on my hand. None of the people answer, but I'm not offended. They came in carrying something long and wrapped in black plastic, they probably just wanted to set it down. They'll be back. Another possibility is that they didn't want to order from a clearly drunk bartender. I smile to myself and decide to peep on the conversation and see what's in the bag.

"Somebody here for you." I hear one of Gambol's men say, the newcomers standing on the sidelines, "They say they've just killed the Joker. They brought the body."

Only the last sentence caught Gambol's attention. The Joker's killers don't wait for permission before entering the room and dropping what I assume is the Joker's body onto the pool table, ruining Gambol's game. Instinctively, I drop low behind the bar, not trusting that the Joker was so easily killed. Maybe he was; he's just a man, after all. I can't hardly see through the wall of people, but I can still pick up dialogue.

"So, dead. That's five hundred-" groans interrupt Gambol and I hear the unmistakable sound of bodies collapsing to the floor.

"How about alive? Hm?" the Joker says suddenly, crinkling plastic flowing with his words. I stand dumbfounded for a moment; this can't really, actually be happening. I watch three of the Joker's people take down Gambol's; they are held at gunpoint on their knees. Now I have a clear view to Gambol's back and the Joker as he holds a small knife to Gambol's face and talks.

"You wanna know how I got these scars?" he whispers, then leans back and continues without an answer. "My father was… a drinker, and a fiend." he says, tongue running over his bottom lip, smearing the red. "And one night, he goes off crazier than usual. Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself; he doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit. So, me watching, he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it.

"He turns to me and he says: 'Why so serious?'" his voice takes a ghastly turn when repeating his father's words, "He comes at me with the knife. 'Why so serious?' He sticks the blade in my mouth. 'Let's put a smile on that face.' And… Why so serious?" he finishes his story, the voice he used for his father's words still leaving chills, as he twists Gambol's neck. From what I've seen in movies, I would've figure there'd be a loud crack, but his death was silent.

"Now, our operation is small, but," he address the survivors, "there is a lot of potential for aggressive expansion." he expands his arms at the word before drawing a pool cue and examining it. "So which of you fine gentlemen would like to join our team? Oh. There's only one spot open right now, so we're gonna have-" he snaps the thick wooden cue over his knee, "tryouts." he finishes excitedly, scanning over the two sharp ends of the cue shards. Finally deciding on the lower half, he drops it between the three remaining of Gambol's crew. "Make it fast." he tells them dismissively, walking through them and- right for the bar.

I drop the rest of the way down, completely hidden. I was only partially visible a second ago, maybe he didn't notice me. My grin cuts through my face. _Maybe he didn't notice me_ what a load. Sharp knocks crack against the bar top.

"Little Mary bartender, I'm feeling a bit parched."

He is answered with silence.

"Let's see. How about 'A Death In The Afternoon'? It seems fitting, or have you already drank all the champagne?" he jokes, "That's okay, I'm more of a vodka man, anyway. I'll have a 'Bloody Mary'." he pauses, waiting for me to respond, but I don't. He huffs "I guess I'll have to make my own-" his hand shoots down and snatches me before I can dodge, dragging me toward him and over the top of the bar. Bottles and glasses shatter to the floor and the Joker holds a blade in the same hand that pins me to the wall.

"You ready to get bloody?" he grins, peering down at me and running his tongue across his lips; that grease paint must taste awful. I will admit, though, that was a pretty good pun. I meet his eyes with my own smile; it is small and sad, but a smile nonetheless. The Joker suddenly frowns like a toddler who isn't given his way.

"You're taking the fun out of this, ya know." he tells me, disappointed.

I laugh in his face. "Sorry, I guess." I keep laughing, my friend Jack Daniels tickling me. My body shakes and goes weak, but I can't stop. I reach around the Joker's grip on my shirt to wipe my damp eyes. He only watches me. At this point, he is the only reason I remain upright. I gasp heaving breaths and look into his face, beaming with tears on my cheeks. I'm surprised to find his face drawn with utter seriousness.

"Just kill me." I tell him since he doesn't seem sure what to do, but he doesn't.

"I don't like being told what to do, especially not by a drunk." he says with a furrowed brow and no smile. I take a deep breath and, to my own surprise, pull myself from his grasp; most of my astonishment stemming from the fact that he lets me.

"Then don't." I say, uncaring of the consequences of my actions; I was dead the second Gambol walked in. I sit myself on smooth bar top and grab whatever alcohol I can reach and put it to my mouth. I keep the heavy bottle in my hand as he approaches. He stands in front of me; now it's my turn to look down to him.

With his hands resting against the bar on either side of me he says "It'd be a shame to kill someone as interesting as you."

I laugh again. "What, a drunk like me? You're too kind."

"Ah, but just any drunk; a drunk that is always in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You mean a drunk with the worst luck-"

"I mean fate." he says emphatically. I can't help but laugh again.

"A man that doesn't believe in coincidences believes in fate? You must be the drunk, now."

He laughs softly and puts on a thinking face while scratching his chin. He turns his back to me and begins twiddling his knife; I can tell he's contemplating hard. My body tenses when I'm struck with the perfect idea. I squeeze the neck of the thick glass bottle in my right hand; I'm gonna whack him. I quietly step back to the ground and take firm stance. I suck in a fast breath and double arm swing the bottle into the Joker's skull.

It clonks loudly, but doesn't have a satisfying shatter like I was hoping; another lie the entertainment industry has told me. The man falls to the floor and I let the bottle drop with him. He groans and moves slowly, but I'm out the door and sprinting down Gotham's dark streets. I bolt less than a block when my breathing is rapid and painful; damn, am I out of shape. I enter the nearest building with an open sign and stow away into the women's bathroom until an employee kicks me out an hour later.

Well, I got away, but I've whacked any chance of the Joker not murdering me over the head. I'll just never see him again- how many more coincidences can I possibly have in a big city like Gotham?

 _ **Thank you for reading and pretty please review! They always make my day. Next chapter coming soon and if you follow you'll know exactly when it's available! Doesn't that sound amazing? Wow, it makes me want to follow my own story! :p haha anyways thank you for reading**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: Chapter five! Thanks you guys so freakin' much for the reviews.  
**_

 _ **yeokaiwen31801: Thank you so much! I like to blame my lack of fans on the fact that maybe there just aren't that many people looking for a Dark Knight OC/Joker romance lol I'm really happy there are a few people enjoying this, though.**_

 _ **clarab10: Thanks! Unless google translate is telling me wrong, I'm glad you enjoyed my story!**_

 _ **summerofthe1975: I'm so happy for you continued support! Thank you so so much for the kind review; it really means so much.**_

 _ **It means so much from all of you and I really hope everyone continues to like my writing. :)**_

It's been about two weeks, nearly three, and I've left my apartment only four times. Needless to say I haven't gotten another job. I can't trust god not to pull another cruel joke; I might not survive the next one. I managed to feed myself with some light shoplifting, during daylight, of course, in different stores dotted around Gotham, but I'm always hungry and my bills are due next week. I figure I only have a few more days after that until I'm cut off, so I've been trying to enjoy myself and relax with power, running water, and some good ole fashioned cable.

"Well, I don't know about Mr. Lau's travel arrangements, but, um, I'm sure glad he's back." District Attorney Harvey Dent tells the news cast. For some reason, I think he's lying. A photo of Mr. Lou appears briefly on the screen and I find that I recognize him. Coincidentally, the last time I saw him was also on a television. So he has been apprehended. Looks like the Joker was right and Dent is lying; there's no way the Batman wasn't involved. I wonder how close Dent is with our masked superhero.

"I'm not aware of any participation by the Batman-" I flip the channel. I can't be the only one hearing his load of bull. In less than twenty minutes, I've made my way back to the news channel. Shit has hit the fan.

"Seven hundred and twelve counts of extortion, eight hundred and forty nine counts of racketeering, two hundred and forty six counts of fraud, eighty seven counts of conspiracy murder, and five hundred and twenty seven counts of obstruction of justice are all of the charges made against the five hundred and forty nine criminals taken into court this afternoon after the arrest of the crime lord Lau earlier this morning. Lau promises to testify knowledge of all the Mafia's investments in an arrangement made with Gotham District Attorney, Harvey Dent. Lau is to remain safe in the MCU precinct until he is due in court." a busty newscaster tells the camera.

Damn, this story is playing out as if the Joker wrote it himself. I can't help but notice the lack of mention of the man so far. I would've figured he'd be big news. I wish the Batman would just go ahead and arrest him or kill him or something; I'm getting real sick and tired of these apartment walls. Honestly, as strange as it is, I feel like I'd be a teensey bit sad if he was dead- maybe more like half a teensey.

I can't help but wonder what Harvey Dent in his chin was thinking. I mean, sure, he's made a huge dent, pun intended, in the mob scene, but at what cost? Everyone's going to be after him, now. The mob, politicians, journalists, cops- anyone whose wallets about to get lighter. Dent's done a great thing for the people, but has pretty much screwed himself. As a citizen, I should be grateful, but it's hard to get around my new impression of him; he's an idiot, but I guess there's a lot of people out there that'll like him for that.

I suppose the opinion of one citizen going against the norm won't make a difference. Nothing I ever do seems to, anyway, not that I expect it to. I'm just a little spec in this city, which is a little spec on state, on the country, on the world. I can't see Harvey's little hero complex touching anything outside of the walls of this spec. The Joker, either. If higher ups like that can't scratch the surface, what hope do I have? I sigh and return to the television. I think I'll stay on the news channel for now, wait for something else interesting to happen. Or at least see if I can find some sort of peace of mind over my whole imminent death thing.

I find a lot more peace of mind than I plan, but I'm not complaining. I fall asleep completely, sleeping all the way through the first night in weeks. My dreams are relatively calm as I relive my memories. I see my mother through my ten year old eyes and she's beautiful. She'd work all day while my father stayed home with me. When arriving home, the first thing she always did was scoop me into a perfect hug; I can't remember feeling someone's arms around me since those days. My head would rest on her shoulder and I could feel her pendant press against my small chest.

The second thing she always did was go to my father and hug him the same, planting a brief but passionate kiss on his lips. I can still remember the feeling of being loved, of knowing that as long as those two people existed in my life, I would always be cared for. I saw everyday how much they loved each other; it makes me smile. I used to dream of finding love like that, but that hope was torn apart and drown in the fear of loss. No one in their right mind would dare love someone if they could see the face of agony that comes with a lover lost; I had to look at that face everyday since I was twelve and until I was eighteen when I moved out. I couldn't stand to see the broken man that was my father. I couldn't stand that I couldn't help him. I thought he didn't love me. I thought Mom took all of his love with her.

I didn't know I was the last thing he had. I didn't know I took away the last thing he had by leaving.

I can see it happening. I can see him writing under the dim light of a lamp, writing each of his words carefully and slowly. I can see him rub away a tear and begin tying the knot like a boy scout. I can see the loop fit around his neck and pull tight as his feet never hit the ground. I feel the tightness around my throat and my mind fills with a million what if's.

What if I stayed?

What if I called?

What if I could've done something- anything?

What if it's all my fault?

A burning cord presses into my neck, making air struggle to enter my lungs. I almost welcome the sensation, despite the water running down my cheeks and the silent cries escaping my lips. Maybe this is all for the best. In the end, what does it matter if I live or die?

My eyes open suddenly and my hand reaches for my neck. I feel the small silver chain press lightly into my skin. I sit up and readjust my necklace. I glance at the time and see that I've slept most of the morning away. At eleven o'clock in the morning, I turn to the television, desperate for a distraction. I get what I'm looking for.

The tv shows what looks to Batman, dangling from a noose, being slowly lowered to the ground with the caption "Batman dead?" of course he's not, right? I ignore the stirring emotions caused by the noose. The news cast confirms my suspicions.

"A man of the name Brian Douglass was found hanging in front of office window of Gotham City's Mayor Garcia . The culprit, the Joker, makes no attempt to hide his identity, even going the extra mile to make it clear to city. A joker playing card was found pinned to the body with the caption 'Will the real Batman please stand up', parodying a popular song by rap artist Eminem." the male newscaster says gravely. Huh, I wouldn't have pegged the Joker as an Eminem fan, not that I can really imagine him listening to any kind of music, anyway. "The Joker painted and scarred Douglass' face to resemble his, and even released video footage of the crime. I want to warn the public to beware; the image is disturbing." he says seriously, and cuts to a home video looking recording of an imitation Batman restrained to a chair in a meat locker with large hanging meat suspended behind him.

The Joker's voice is the same as ever, extra crisp as he speaks near the mic "Tell them your name." he says like he was asking a shy child to introduce himself.

"Brian… Douglass." fake Batman answers hesitantly while the Joker's giggles echo in the room.

The microphone crackles and the Joker approaches and eagerly asks "Are you the real Batman?" as if he didn't know; his voice sends a minor chill across my body.

"No." Brian answers simply.

"No?" the Joker asks in mock surprise, "No?" he asks again teasingly, his laughter breaking up his words and sending loud breaths over the camera mic. "Then why do ya dress up like him?" he talks in a way that makes me think of a bully harassing a middle schooler on Halloween, especially as he rips off the rubbery Batman mask.

Pudge?!

I bolt upright and gasp loudly as I recognize Brian. The Joker's insane giggling continues as he jiggles the mask in front of the camera with a sarcastically impressed laugh. At this point, Pudge bravely speaks, causing me to shake my head; he doesn't stand a chance.

"He's a symbol; we don't have to be afraid of scum like you." he answers with a hanging head, his voice showing how clearly scared out of his wits he is.

"Yeah," the Joker tells him as if he hates to inform him, "you do Brian." his voice sobers and growls, "You really do." he speaks while gripping Pudge's hair and tilting his whimpering face back, "Huh? Yeah." he grunts like animal. He suddenly seems to change his mind and runs the back of his hand gently across Pudge's damp cheek. "Oh, shush shush shush shush shush-" he swallows a giggle and continues, slapping Pudge lightly on both cheeks. "So you think Batman's made Gotham a better place? Hm?"

The camera pans out to Pudge's head tucked defensively to his chest, only able to blubber softly to himself.

"Look at me." the Joker asks while Pudge continues to weep softly without moving. "Look. At. Me!" he then demands in the most vicious and terrifying voice I've ever heard, each word rattling my bones and sending goosebumps to explode out of every pore of my flesh. The intensity of his voice is that of a snarling beast with broken patience and guttural anger at being disobeyed. I can't imagine hearing that voice anywhere except right before death or in nightmares. My heart is racing and I'm still recovering when the Joker turns the camera onto himself.

"You see this is how crazy Batman's made Gotham," he says, his voice back to normal and varying in pitch. He continues slightly winded. "You want order in Gotham, Batman must take off his mask and turn himself in. Oh, and everyday he doesn't, people will die. Starting tonight. I'm a man of my word." he promises, his mouth uncomfortably close to the lens before bursting out in hysterical laughter.

I mute the television and get off the couch. I take deep breaths and walk around, checking every single lock on every single window and door in my home, all while "The Real Slim Shady" plays on repeat in my head. I pull down shades and draw curtains and check the locks again before sitting down. I sit in silence a moment before smiling at myself. I shake my head, my grin parting my lips for a laugh I can't hold back. I mean, this is pathetic. I'm as safe in here as I am prancing around the streets. It's just a matter of time and he already has a reason to want to kill me, not that he needs one. In fact, it might even be better for me to go out and get something done before I'm dead, or at least find something enjoyable.

I could get drunk, but that feels so trite. Plus, I want to remember my last amount of time alive. I return the volume to the television, hoping to find some sort of inspiration. Infomercial, infomercial, infomercial- ugh, this is pointless. I cycle back to the news just in time to hear of Harvey Dent's fundraiser hosted by billionaire Bruce Wayne. That's promising. Free food and fine clothes? Why the hell not? I'll have to steal something nice; my closet is lacking for such an event. I could go now, but chances are I won't be able to get away with it with so many witnesses.

I'm a dead woman walking and the difference between dying tonight or tomorrow night is very little. The alternative is staying locked in my apartment for another couple days; I wouldn't mind experiencing something for a change. It's funny how different I feel, how fearless I am now. Maybe my encounter with the Joker isn't all bad. I feel more alive than ever.

 _ **Thanks for reading and pretty pretty please review if you liked or disliked anything. 3**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**AN: Finally, am I right? But for real, sorry everyone. I had an incredible amount of things going on for several weeks, and when I finally got to a point where I could write again, my laptop broke. So, that's my excuse. I can at least promise the next chapter coming pretty soon. In like, a week or less. I've got it written, it's just a matter of sitting down and editing. Thanks to anyone that's actually come back to this after all this time, and thanks to any new readers. Hope everyone enjoys.**_

When night falls, I'm tempted to go to the store I plan on stealing from. It's called "Fancy Lady" and I've always wanted a dress from there. They're extremely expensive and very beautiful, but I've never had a reason to wear a fabulous dress or the money to buy one. I'm excited for this opportunity. Maybe I'll attract myself a rich man and buy all the solutions to my problems. I smile and laugh to myself. I don't think money can save me at this point; the Joker doesn't seem the type to take a bribe.

I've decided to wait until at least midnight to leave. I'm not sure why, but it feels right. The place is upscale, but not upscale enough for an alarm system, I don't think. At least, I hope, since it's 2:30am and I'm weighing my options outside of the store. I could just chuck a rock, but that doesn't feel wise. I don't want to deal with cops anymore than I want to deal with the Joker. I frown at my logic; I think my priorities have gotten scrambled along the way. I shake my head like an etch-a-sketch to clear it.

The front door is out in the open. If I want to use it, it'll be difficult to be sneaky. The back door, though, would be much harder to break into since I've never learned to pick a lock. I stare through the large display window, contemplating. Elegant and flowing gowns are presented. It looks like they're having a sale on wedding dresses. It just seems silly to imagine myself in one of those; not just for the party, but in general. I've never been the marrying type. I look back to the front entrance.

It's a glass and glossy, cherry wood paneled door, elegantly painted with the store's logo in swirling white cursive. From the top to about half way down is sectioned of into twelve small windows, while the bottom half is perfect, smooth wood. I could smash one of the sections of glass, that would be enough for me to reach in and unlock the door manually, but would definitely set of alarms if there are any installed. I huff, growing impatient with my indecision. I could also smash the display window and get it over with. I smile to myself. I don't have the time to waste on overthinking this. Even if I'm arrested, it'll be an experience enough for me. Hell, it might even protect me from the Joker. I chuckle quietly at the thought.

What is it the kids are saying now? I wonder, taking a sizeable discarded chunk of concrete and weighing it in my palm. YOLO, I think. You Only Live Once. That holds quite true for me at the moment, and, if I'm anything, I'm hip and with it, down with today's youth.

I don't sling the rock, but carefully overhand swing it to slam the thick glass. The hit echoes through the quiet streets far louder than I wish, but successfully sends a crack to cut across the clear surface. A second whack is enough to punch a hole big enough for my hand. I'm surprised to find myself beaming at the satisfaction of destruction. I almost feel like I want to smash up the whole store, now. There's a certain sense of power breaking stuff makes me feel. A sense of being in control.

As I enter, glass crunching under my shoes. I immediately regret not grabbing a flashlight. I attempt my search briefly, squinting at a few dresses in the dark before deciding that there's no way for me to possibly choose the dress I want without light, and I refuse to settle when it comes to the dress I may die in.

Without much thought, I simply flip on the lights.

Now, let's see, based on my little knowledge on any sort of fashion, I know bright colors look good with my olive sort of skin tone; it's supposed to make me look tanner, or something. At least I think. Someone told me or I read it somewhere; maybe I overheard it. Ugh, forget it, I'll just go with whatever catches my eye. Who cares if it goes with my skin tone. What does that even mean?

I always thought that it'd be nice to have a delicate, ivory skin like my mother, but I don't mind taking after my father. It makes me happy to look like him. I shrug off the thought of my parents and rifle through more clothing. They sell shoes here, too, so I'll be able to take the opportunity to show off my ability to wear heels. Once I choose a dress, that is.

After nearly ten minutes, I sigh in defeat. None of these dresses catch my eye. I mean, they're all lovely, but none of them feel right. I smirk at myself; I'm acting like I'm on an episode of "Say Yes to the Dress". I see some gorgeous greens, and reds, a sleek skirted blue and a thigh high slitted purple, but none of them strike my fancy. I swim through the peaches and beiges for a classy look, but, again, they don't quite work. The fact that I haven't even liked one enough to try on begins discouraging me.

"No… no… no…" I mumble after glancing at each dress, moving down the line. I'm going to run out soon. And then what? I exhale uneasily and pause at a golden yellow dress. Dear Lord, this thing is bright. It looks out of place, almost. The right corner of my lips yanks up. It cracks me up a little. I mean, just look at this yellow ass dress! It's kind of ridiculous. Giggles rattle in my throat and push at my closed mouth. My smile slides off my face and my brow furrows when I start to wonder if I want it. I mean, It's got a nice shape to it. It's sleeveless and kind of drapey with a full coverage front and open back. Not to mention it's the only dress that has caught my attention. Not necessarily in the way I was expecting, but I think I like it. It's a loud dress. It stands out, unlike me. If were to ever change that, tomorrow night would be the night.

"Sure, why not?" I say out loud and pull the hanger from the collection of dresses. I hold the gown away from the floor and consider not even bothering with a dressing room; I mean, the store's empty. After a brief moment of thought, I strip behind the door of a changing room, just to be on the safe side. The dressing room is no bigger than a closet with cringe worthy hot pink interior.

The bright material is thin, soft, and breathable. It hangs on my shoulders and hugs just below my ribcage with an elegant twist of fabric. I turn to view the back of myself in the floor length mirror cemented to the rosey door. The dress reveals my protruding shoulder blades and arching spine. Not bad, it's a shame the skirt is long enough to hide my feet, though. I can't exactly hire a tailor. If I was about six inches taller, I think this dress would be perfect. I gather the loose fabric to keep it from dragging and exit the changing room.

The skirt rubs gently across my legs as I approach the other end of the store, the shoe motherload. Shoes upon shoes. Stilettos, platform heels, short clunky heels, and flats. I make a steady beeline for the platform stilettos. Preferably, the smaller the platform the better; too much platform can take a look from classy to trashy so fast. At least in my eyes.

Thankfully, looking for shoes goes a lot smoother than looking for a dress. The first pair of heels my eyes focus on I instantly know are the ones. Heh, listen to me: "the one". Like I ever believed in silly stuff like that. My hand hovers over the shoes. I always thought Mom and Dad were each others' "the ones". I suppose I do believe in silly stuff, afterall. Silly doesn't feel like the right word. The thought that there is someone out there considered to be your "the one" could be called something like beautiful. To me, though, I think it's more horrible than beautiful.

If there actually is a "the one" for me, then the chances of me meeting him (or her, I guess, you never know) are literally 1 to 7 billion. How cruel. Even if, by some miracle, I did find him, and we did end up together, one of us would die first. Every single odd is stacked against us in this life. An unconscious smile creeps over my features. If god is out there, he must be a sadist.

I let my hand fall to the pair of shoes. The soft purple velvet greets my flesh. With my sneakers abandoned in the dressing room, I slip my chilled feet into the silken emerald lined interier of the heels. With only a one inch platform and a whopping five inch heel, my foot contorts to the shape of a barbie doll's. Despite that, the shoe still holds my feet comfortably. I've always had a flair for heels, especially after my stint with them from ages 19-25.

I drop the hem of my dress. It falls only an inch shy of the ground.

"Perfect," I smile to myself. I decide to do a lap around the store to test how much I actually remember on how to hold myself in shoes like this. It takes only two strides for my gait to steady and flow perfectly. A few more and I forget that I'm even wearing shoes different from sneakers, especially as my attention is grabbed by a section of the store I never knew existed. I dart toward it, heels clacking.

It looks like it's for some kind of masquerade event. It's only a small corner section, but the area is spattered with masquerade themed accessories. There are intricate masks splayed on the wall, donned with feathers and printed with silvers and gold. Extravagant jewelry and hair pieces and tufted hats, flamboyant hoop skirts and flashy shawls. Well, for the next masquerade ball I'm invited too, I know where I'm going shopping.

My eyes drift across the landscape of masks. I see a small, black one with with feathers and swirls bursting elegantly from the sides, a golden one with red embroidery and a perfect rose blooming above the right eye hole. I spot a green one with little embellishment and straight, hard edges pointing away from the center. As I aimlessly gaze, my eyes are suddenly tugged toward the animal masks. There're cats and elephants, rabbits and birds, and the mask that I pull toward, a mouse. Or, maybe it's a rat.

The snout of the mask sticks out several inches forward with a delicate pink nose on the tip. I snicker at it's goofy, massive ears, and arguably unnerving slivers of black eyes. It's brown painted fur looks airbrushed and oddly realistic.

On a whim, I slide the thing over my face. My giggle echos inside the plastic. I peer around the store through the narrowed eyes of the mouse, losing my periphery, and rotating on the balls of my feet. I feel pleased enough with my new height to softly hum a nameless tune as I smile contently for the first time since I can remember. The feeling quickly dies, like the tide being sucked into the growing ocean of panic that suddenly fills my mind.

"B-Batman?!" I stutter out, face to face with the man-or bat, I guess.

He doesn't respond, but I can see his dark eyes taking in the situation. His black, looming figure towers over me, despite my heels and him standing at least three feet away. His presence intimidating, giving off waves of authority. My heart is fluttering in my chest; I feel more surprised than anything. Honestly, I'm a bit starstruck. The atmosphere is thick with tension that always makes me want to laugh.

"Are you gonna make me say it?" he asks a touch annoyed and in a voice that makes me bite my tongue to stay silent. Who even talks like that? It sounds ridiculous!

I manage to keep quiet.

He sighs as if annoyed and says "Fine. I can't arrest you here, but I can take you to someone who can. You're coming with me to the police station for breaking an entering and attempted theft. Now, are we going to walk there, or am I going to have to carry you?"

I don't attempt to hold back my immediate laughter. It's boisterous, but genuine. His aura of power and strength seems to dissolve before my eyes.

"Oh, we have to walk? Don't you drive?" I joke through giggles. I try to hold it back a bit to speak, because it looks like I'm going to have to explain the joke to him. I speak with a condescending smile.

"Dude-Sir," I correct with slight sarcasm, "Are you seriously going to waste your time here? With me?" I ask disbelievingly; he still doesn't get it.

"You are serious," I state, all humor gone from my voice, "When there are actual criminals out there?"

"Stealing is a crime."

"Yeah, but I'm not murdering anyone or involved with the mob, hell, I don't even have a weapon. Why don't you actually help the city by arresting an actual dangerous person. Someone like, oh, I don't know…" I mock a deep thinker for a second before stating the incredibly obvious, "The Joker. Just a thought." I shrug.

He seems a bit taken aback and doesn't reply immediately, so I continue as confidently as I can, entering the changing room to replace my regular clothes. I drape the yellow gown over my arm and carry the shoes by the heels. Deciding my only choice is to just walk out, I can only barely notice my complete lack of fear or anxiety. In this tense, high stress situation, I feel completely calm. In my eyes, the Batman is far less terrifying than the Joker. I stride past the man to the door; he hesitates to stop me.

"Stop, you can't-" he starts, reaching toward me.

"Make sure you get the lights on the way out. No sense in wasting the power." I shut him down as I cross the threshold of the exit. As I step onto the street, I quickly dart between buildings and sprint around a few corners in the twisty brick alleys before I have to rest and, without much thought, I approach an abandoned couch by a poorly lit dumpster. I step on the furniture for leverage and let my body fall backwards into the metal trash hole. I brace my new clothing against my stomach.

The breath is knocked out of my lungs as my back slams onto hard bottom of the recently emptied dumpster. I lay still a moment, trying to catch my breath as quietly as possible. I listen for Batman, regretting my decision to catapult myself into a place where dignity is now unreachable. I wait for my inevitable arrest.

I look up to the black sky, stars invisible from light pollution. I smile at the new way to describe myself: An invisible star. My smile falters. Invisible, maybe, but I'm no star. I stiffen when a sound meets my ears. A single "ha" bursts from my lips before I smack my hand over my mouth. I'm scared now. I'm scared of going to jail, I'm scared of Batman, I'm scared of the Joker, I'm scared of the bugs in this dumpster, hell, I'm scared of the dark. How on earth did a fraidy cat like me end up in a situation like this?

We're talking about Miss "needed a nightlight until she was 13", Miss "hasn't made a friend in years", Miss "never fell in love". My life has been a consistent, uneventful, schedule since my father died. What on Earth made it change so suddenly? What cosmic power decided to shift the way it was? Why me? Is it because I'm being punished, is it because of my winning personality, or is it my witty charm? I start laughing under my palm. Water trickles from the corner of my eyes. When I reach to rub it away, I realize I've still got the masquerade mask on. I snort and pull it back, the walls of the mask finally returning my periphery back to me.

Every muscles in my body coils at what I see. I see the eyes and nose of a face peering down at me over the lip of the dumpster in my shameful position. I jolt up to a sitting position with my back smashing into wall of what I now fear to be my metal tomb. Some man, probably an insane cannibal vagrant, is most likely planning on the best way to murder me right now. Another tear forms in the corner of my eyes when I forcefully clamp my teeth on my bottom lip. I somehow succeed in holding back a laugh after the thought "Gee, I hope Batman gets here soon" zips through my mind.

The homeless murder laughs and my jaw drops.

No way; that sounded like- I blink and he's gone. I rub my eyes and rise from the dumpster. I ungracefully clamber out. Did I imagine him? I huff irritably and continue on my way home. I probably did, considering how often the Joker's been on my mind. I clutch my shoes and dress against my chest and imagine the mouse mask sitting alone in the dumpster. There's probably some metaphor there somewhere, but my nerves are frazzled. I need a good rest before the fundraiser, my last party.

 _ **Again, sorry for the incredibly long delay. Update coming next chance I get to sit at a computer. (I've accidentally written like, three chapters in one sitting) Thanks for the support 3**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN: Thank you everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and favorited. Means a lot and I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. Please let me know if you guys think something is lacking or if you have any suggestions. I always answer my PMs, mostly because I rarely get them. Anyways, here's chapter 7, chapter 8 coming soon.**_

I stand shoulder to shoulder with well dressed strangers in a tight elevator. Men in black suits, women in fine dresses. The elevator seems to rise in slow motion as the temperature increases in double time. I watch the people around me fidget uncomfortably, tugging at collars and lightly fanning themselves. It feels weird being in such close proximity to tall, perfect people like these. They're rich and confident, yet I somehow stand equal to them. Mostly because I'm wearing massive heels and stolen clothes. I smirk to myself; I clean up pretty nice. I think I'll blend in just fine.

Finally, the elevator doors scrape open and we fill into the larger room like fog over a river bank. I see chandeliers before I see the tables of rich people finger foods on toothpicks. I quickly notice the people carrying trays of beverages, as well. I lick my lips and taste cheap lipstick, reminding myself why I don't often wear the stuff.

I can't help but be in awe at how beautiful this place is. Twinkling lights line the walls, flamboyant floral centerpieces decorate each of the small tables with tablecloths impossibly clean and white. The ceiling feels as tall as the sky and the entire north wall is made of windows that overlook the city at night. I've never seen the buildings from this high up; they look fake, like a painting.

I walk through the mingling clusters of people, dainty glass of champagne in hand. I sip it delicately and with self control. Somewhere in the middle of the room, I stop and scan the crowd. I guess I should try and talk to someone; boredom is beginning to rear its ugly head. I narrow my general scan to pinpoint people standing alone. After a moment or two without luck, I realize that people must usually bring a date, or at least a friend, with them to events like this. I did get here kind of late...if I didn't I might of had a chance to meet someone before all the single people paired off. Maybe someone will approach me. I smile; yeah, right.

"Excuse me, Miss, that dress is dazzling." a man's voice sneaks up on me.

I nearly jump, but manage to cover my surprise. I turn to graciously accept the compliment, only to be slapped by another shock.

"Thank you, I-" my mouth turns into a desert as I look into the face of the host of this fabulous event, Bruce Wayne. His tailored suit and perfectly parted and styled hair is striking. I stand nearly eye level with him with my heels, giving me the confidence to fix my face.

He smiles handsomely at me and asks "Where did you get it?"

I'm still wondering why he's decided to start a conversation with me, but answer the question. I hope I'm not somehow letting on that I stole it. I smile at him, more to myself, really, because of my silly thought. Why would anyone assume my dress was stolen?

"Was it very expensive?"

What kind of question is that? I think, suddenly becoming nervous. Maybe it's a normal question. I open my mouth to answer some bull-crap number to make me sound impressive, when he continues speaking.

"I hear their dresses can run quite high," he then shakes his head as if he just heard some bad news, swirling his champagne, "It makes them the target of thieves far too often. In fact, just the other night I heard someone somehow got in and picked the place clean."

My jaw sets and my first instinct is to defend myself. "Picked the place clean" is such an exaggeration. I stole one outfit. Instead, though, I go for my default response for all situations. I laugh heartily.

"Yeah, seems like that kind of thing is happening all the time in a city like Gotham," I sigh with residual laughter, "Maybe our little hero Batman needs to kick it up a notch." I finish with a smile and a sip.

Bruce Wayne smiles back, but it doesn't seem sincere, "Well, one man can't possibly stop all the criminals out there."

"No, I guess not, but I don't think many people consider him to be just 'one man'. Seems to me that if you do look at the Batman as just 'one man', then you'd think that maybe he'd be able to stop at least one criminal."

"Didn't he jail hundreds recently?" he combats quickly.

"Wasn't Harvey Dent the one that really put all those men behind bars? I was thinking someone more along the lines of...I don't know...the Joker?"

"Well, he can't exactly pick and choose which criminals to punish-"

"Yeah," I interrupt, "I think he can. Sure, petty thieves shouldn't get away with their crimes, but I feel like it's more than fair to say that some people definitely deserve a helping of Batman's justice more than others."

"Unfortunately, Miss, that's not how the law works." he says coolly, sending a trail of goosebumps down my spine and a quick wave of flush to my cheeks. I swallow nervously. I just realized that this guy's the worst kind of man to argue with. Even if I know he's wrong, he'll still seem right.

Again, my body reacts in one of the most socially awkward ways. A disrespectful dribble of giggles spills from my lips.

"I'm pretty sure vigilantes don't really care how the law works." I shrug, my face cooling to normal temperature, now that I've managed to reply just as coldly as he.

Again, I feel smile take over my mouth, but it's far from polite; I've officially grown sick of this billionaire's attitude. Just because he's better than me in almost every way, doesn't mean he gets to act like it. So he paid for his clothes and I didn't; big whoop! I know for a fact that I worked harder for mine. Mr. I-think-I-can-do-what-I-want-because-I-got-a-ridiculous-inheritance. I spill the rest of my champagne between the lips of my shit eating grin. I need to stop drinking before any of these thoughts are said aloud.

"If the Batman goes outside of the law the city wouldn't accept him; he doesn't have the choice of ignoring small crimes. And even if he did get one of the higher up crime lords, they'll always be another one in line to replace them. Yo-We don't have the right to imply that there's a better way to defend our city."

"But there is."

"What might that be?" he asks after a brief, disgruntled huff. I can really tell how hard he's working to stay civil; it just makes me want to push his buttons more.

I clear my throat, smile wider, and kick myself ahead of time for what I say next.

"It's simple," I swallow a giggle, "we, uh, kill the Joker."

I bite the inside of my cheek. To hear the Joker's words reversed against himself, and to hear those words coming out of _my_ mouth, is hilarious.

"You make it sound so easy." he says quickly. I hear a change in his voice, the falling away of the remainder of his politeness. He sounds defensive. Maybe bad-mouthing the city's superhero idol wasn't the best way to make conversation, I realize, but irritating Mr. snob was irresistible. My eyes drop shamefully to my empty glass; I can't keep letting alcohol steal my self control.

We stand awkwardly for a moment, both debating on the best way to defuse the situation. Thankfully, a call pulls him away. I watch him suddenly rush off and I sigh with relief. I immediately sigh again and set my glass aside, ready for a new interaction to help forget my last. I resist another glass of bubbly, but succumb when I feel boredom beginning to creeping up on me again. A few minutes later I find myself frowning into my half empty glass. I'm feeling a bit tipsy; my frown deepens. This is the one thing I wanted to avoid for my last evening. Well, that and the Joker, of course.

I hear the scrape of the elevator doors, signaling the arrival of new guests. Maybe one of them will be alone as well and I can finally find something to do other than slowly loose my wits. A voice and commotion cause the whole room to turn toward the late arrivals. My blood turns to ice, momentarily freezing me on the spot.

"We made it," the Joker says, arriving fashionably late. He pounds a bullet into the ceiling upon exit of the elevator.

Without hesitation, the crowd parts, everyone collectively pushing back against the walls, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and the Joker as possible. I, with a cold water splash of realization, find myself on the outside of the human wall, only a single person standing between me and the man with a clown mask. He points a gun across the crowd; like we'd try anything, anyway.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," the Joker greets in the newly silence room. I look to him with horror reflected in my eyes; I haven't had enough to drink to be brave. A metal tray clatters somewhere in the room. He lets the noise resonate and silence before continuing.

"We are tonight's entertainment," he tells us, plucking up a shrimp as he saunters through the room; he eats it noisily with plenty of smacking.

"I only have one question: where is Harvey Dent?"

A cough from the audience of the startled party goers is the only answer. He impatiently whirls his gun at anyone near, walking the length of the crowd. He snatches a glass in the silence, his jerking movements splashing most of it to the floor, and downs the remaining drink. He smacks the empty glass down on a table in passing. I'm surprised it didn't shatter.

"Do you know where Harvey is? Do you know who he is?" he asks anyone nearby, recklessly smacking the head of whoever was closest to his hand. I watch him grab the face of a balding man, squeezing his clean shaven, shiny cheeks.

"Do you know where I can find Harvey? I need to talk to him about something, just something little. No?"

He drops the man's head, but doesn't assault him further. He continues moving, getting closer and closer to where I stand. I curse my heels for putting my face above the woman in front of me. The Joker pauses again to pick a snack from another white table-clothed table. He chews open mouthed while speaking.

"You know, I'll settle for his loved ones,"

"We're not intimidated by thugs!" another balding man says (there seems to be an abundance of those around here). You stupid, old, bastard, I think regretfully. Why do people keep standing up to him? The Joker narrows his gaze on the man, wiping his hand on the table cloth next to him harshly, rattling the dishes nearby.

"You know," he says, pulling a knife from his pocket, "You remind me of my father,"

The Joker grips the man's skull with his gloved hand and brings his mouth to his knife.

"I hated my father," he growls, his face inches from the man's. I stand only feet away, guiltily grateful for the old man for gaining the Joker's attention. I stare at the scene in front of me, wishing my eyes would move away from the gore I'm about to witness. Worse than blood spurting from a man's face, I see the Joker's eyes suddenly shift to mine. I feel blood drain from my face and my eyes bulge; I'm dead for real this time.

"Okay stop." a woman's voice saves me. I recognize her as the woman commonly seen on the arm of Harvey Dent. She confidently steps away from the crowd in a stunning navy dress with her arms crossed. I immediately respect her for strength, not like I usually do for others that try to face the Joker. I almost believe she stands a chance against him. Speaking of the man, I see him give her a once over before turning to approach her. He smooths back his greasy hair and strides with swagger toward the center of the room.

"Well, hello beautiful," he greets, "You must be Harvey's squeeze," he presumes, pointing at her with jabbing motions. He lowers his knife and continues, "Hm?"

The woman holds her stance, chin held high.

"And you are beautiful." he finishes with a sincerity that made me frown. I push back whatever feeling his compliment made me feel and watch him circle the woman like buzzard. She finally breaks and flinches when he stands behind her, hating not having him in sight; I don't blame her. The Joker centers himself in front of her, licking his lips and bringing his knife forward.

"Oh, you look nervous," he says in the dead silent room.

I can hear the lights humming and the hushed breathing of the crowd.

"Is it the scars?" he asks gently, "Wanna know how I got them?" he asks, nodding confirmation for her.

"C'mere," he grabs her face roughly, squeezing her cheeks to force her mouth open to show her exactly how he got his scars. He face writhes in his grasp.

"Hey- Look at me." he tells her quietly forcing the direction of her face to point to his. She continues to struggle while the Joker begins his story, his knife nearly resting on her soft skin.

"So I had a wife, beautiful like you, who tells me I worry too much. Who tells me I oughta smile more. Who gambles and gets too deep with the sharks- Hey," he interrupts himself softly to make sure the woman is still listening, "One day, they carve her face, and we have no money for surgeries. She can't take it; I just want to see her smile again. Hm?" he asks to see if she understands, "I just want her to know that I don't care about the scars. So, I stick a razor in my mouth and do this," he gestures to his gruesome glasgow smile, tilting his head in both directions to display the scars in their entirety, "to myself."

His captive no long futilely struggles to look away.

"And you know what?" he continues, looking her straight in the eyes, "She can't stand the sight of me." he says angrily with a snarl, darting his tongue over his lips.

I see Harvey's girlfriend pull back, frightened by the sudden rise in volume, but her face doesn't show it.

"She leaves," he continues as if his outburst hadn't happened, "Now I see the funny side. Now I'm always smiling." he beams, throwing an arm up in a carefree way. The woman takes the opportunity to knee him in the crotch. An unnoticed, impossibly short-lived giggle escapes me, but I don't think anyone in the world could expect me to hold that in. The Joker grunts and doubles over, never losing his smile. He giggles, backing away. Steadily, his back straightens and points again with his knife, stepping forward.

"A little fight in you. I like that." he finishes, his face growing dark and serious and I think he's finally going to cut her. I drop my eyes, bracing myself for a scream. Instead, I hear the deep, ridiculous voice of Batman.

"Then you're gonna love me." followed by the thumping sound of a fist slamming into a ribcage. The next few minutes go by impossibly fast. The best way I can describe what happens next is simply "fighting ensues". The crowd begins to scatter, cramming an unfortunate number of themselves into the elevator, and, more logically, many sprint down the stairs. Others shrink themselves as small as possible and huddle to the floor and against the walls. I, on the other hand, can't help but watch, hunkered down just enough to not stand out. It's like an action movie but in real life.

I watch Batman dodge and punch, flip and kick the Joker's crew. I see the Joker throw his men into Batman like weapons, dart into the tussles to deliver a blow and dart back out before getting hit. Suddenly there's a knife protruding from the toe of the Jokers shoe. I unconsciously grin at the genius behind the weapon. I flinch when I see him nail Batman in the gut with a sharp kick, no pun intended. I wonder how thick his bat armor is. I smirk again at the words "bat armor". How lame does that sound?

My smirk fails when I watch the Joker's body fly several feet through the air before tumbling on the floor. Batman may win this fight, I realize. Seems the Joker has the same realization and makes a beeline for Harvey's girl. He grabs her with one hand and clutches a gun with the other. Batman stops in his tracks. Silence once again fills the room.

"Drop the gun." he growls.

"Oh, sure," the Joker pants, "You just take off your little mask and show us all who you really are. Hm?" he laughs throwing his arm backwards and shattering the massive window behind him with a bullet. He rushes to the window and dangles to woman outside like old laundry, smiling to Batman. Batman doesn't move, only glowers.

"Let her go." he commands with authority that doesn't seem to touch the Joker, whose face contorts as if he was just told a bad joke.

"Very poor choice of words," he says, wind whipping his green hair across his face. He opens his hand with a laugh flying from his wide open mouth as the woman vanishes into the night. Batman disappears after her. The Joker whirls on us all. Everyone becomes suddenly aware that we are Batmanless and alone with a killer. Frantically we scatter.

I attempt to meld into the most tightly packed groups. I don't know if he'll come after me, but I don't want to give him the chance. I cram my form between a large man and regular woman, attempting to wedge myself into safety. I go shoulder first, managing to split them apart and slip forward a few paces, but somewhere someone shoves somebody and, by the newton's law, I am thrown backwards. Before I can regain my footing, people jostle by me, disturbing my balance further.

 _Someone help._

 ** _Please tell me what you thought in the reviews! Thank you for reading, hope no one hated it or anything._**


	8. Chapter 8

_**AN: I'm back. College is stressful work keeps me busy, but boyfriends are great. Life is getting into some kind of routine. I checked my email and saw a few reviews and messages and decided I needed to post. Please enjoy.**_

A firm grip steadies me and I breath a sigh of relief, only for it to whoosh out suddenly when I'm jerked backwards by my upper arm. I feel a hot leather grip and the warmth of a body against my back. Buttons push into my skin. I don't need to look to know who's snatched me.

"Well, well, well," the Joker smiles in my ear with warm breath giving me goosebumps as the last of the crowd vanishes to safety.

With nothing but a deep breath I thrust myself forward. I break free for a glorious three seconds before an unyielding grip clotheslines me by the wrist. I yank my arm sore, my heels providing no traction.

"Let go..!" I grunt and jerk my arm with all my weight, but all I do is lose my balance. A humor filled "tsk" meets my ears.

"Not so fast, there, sunshine," the Joker says, pulling me to my feet.

My breaths come out in huffs and I can feel how frightened I look. The Joker's face smiles as if minorly impressed.

"I haven't ever seen that look on you before," he observes before switching to a regular smile, "It suits you, like that dress; it really makes you stand out in a crowd."

I frown and start pulling away again, my arm throbbing in protest.

"C'mon, now. We can't waste time like this-"

And we're off. I run without thinking, one hand clutching my skirt. I don't observe my surroundings, too focused on not tripping in my shoes. The rooms and halls are dark, so I have little idea where we are. I hear my shoes' muffled pattering as we descend a set of carpeted stairs into a massive room. I look up and see statues and paintings whizzing by my vision. He has a museum in his house? I think in disbelief; now he's just showing off. The Joker rushes us into the room and flings us too the floor behind a rather large pedestal of a marble sculpted couple in each other's arms. In the same motion, a hand his smacked over my mouth.

I look to the Joker, one of his hands clasped over my mouth and the other not wavering its iron grip on my wrist. I pant lightly through my nose; he does the same through his painted lips. The smell of warm leather snakes up my nostrils. I can feel each of his fingers pressing against my lips. Hurried footsteps and echoing voices meet our ears as we sit quietly and perfectly still. I turn toward the noise, waiting for police to appear around the corner. I can feel the Joker's eyes bury into me, but I keep my face turned away. I don't know what to do with a gaze that strong.

The noises around us begin to fade and I feel sweat forming on my upper lip under his glove. With rash decision making and a movement as quick as I can make it, I jerk all my weight away from him. My body moves smoothly, only to be snagged by the grip on my wrist. The Joker moves to regain his hold on me, but, desperate for a break from his big hand on my face, I frantically shush him by aggressively tapping my index finger against my lips.

He halts his advance with a quirked eyebrow and a toothy smirk. I relax when I feel like he won't make another grab. I lean my back against the statue's sturdy base and calmly consider what we might look like to an outsider. A man and woman, sitting hand in hand, one in a purple suit, the other in a yellow dress. My eyes widen; I blink quickly and lick my lips casually to pretend I didn't just crack a smile. I just realized that we are wearing complimentary colors-even my shoes match his outfit. I chock it up to a weird coincidence, but I'm afraid it's really because the Joker has made it deeper into my mind than I am aware of.

I let my eyes trace over the other art pieces around us as we wait, but I can't shake the burrowing feeling of that man's eyes on me. I turn to him abruptly and feel his hand tighten on my wrist. My face is tense with crankiness, tightening my brows and pursing my lips.

"It's rude to stare." I tell him in a nearly inaudible whisper like a mother scolding her child in public. His reaction only makes my frown deepen. He beams brightly, never moving his eyes and feeling his scars with his tongue. I stare him down, hoping it might make him look away. I see red paint smudge. Doesn't that taste stuff taste bad? I wonder. I can hardly stand lipstick.

"Want to find out?" he answers in a hushed voice. For a moment I foolishly think that he read my thoughts, but I must've spoke aloud. I blush, feeling silly. Before I can respond, I'm ungracefully yanked to my feet and dragged forward. I guess we're done waiting. We retrace our steps back to the party hall, now empty, save for abandoned beverages, finger foods, and shattered glass. I'm flung into the elevator, the Joker close behind.

I watch the doors calmly close as the ground floor button is pressed. I suddenly untense and relax, my body realizing that my wrist has been dropped before my brain. My jaw falls a bit slack when I realize he's let me go. When I look to him, I see why.

The Joker unpockets a blade. For a moment I'm sure that he's finally gonna use it on me, but instead he pries loose the elevator control panel. Sparks leap forward and I squeak in surprise, and again as the lights shut off, leaving the two of us in pitch darkness.

"Calm down, mousey." the Joker mutters to my embarrassment. I feel almost certain he spoke with a smile. The darkness remains only for a moment, but for some reason it feels so much longer. I keep my breathing shallow as I wait for… I don't know. I swallow a lump in my throat as memories rise from the repressed depths of my mind. _God please no._

Lights suddenly reilluminate in an odd, redish tint; these must be the backups. I'm startled to find the Joker standing directly in front of me. I step back quickly, my heels breaking the silence with two hard clacks. He doesn't seem to notice. I find my heart beating fast in my chest; not racing, or anything, but definitely fast. Or maybe not. I shrug it off. The dark always makes me uneasy.

I watch the Joker stow his knife and straightened his coat.

"Hey, sunbeam, need a boost?" he offers. What's with these nicknames? I figure he's referencing my dress, but I suddenly don't care when he crouches down and wraps his arms around my knees. I gasp as I'm lifted swiftly. I grow rigid and clutch his shoulders to keep from falling forward and over his shoulder.

"Open 'er up." he tells me slightly strained and without explanation. I figure the sooner I do what he says, the sooner he'll put me down. I glance around and quickly find the discreetly labeled hatch on the ceiling: EMERGENCY EXIT. I slide back the panel door and feel my weight lowered briefly before being dropped. I stumble, but keep my footing. I look down to pat the wrinkles from my skirt, just for a second to give my face the chance to cool. No one's lifted me up in years. I turn my head up just in time to see the Joker legs disappear into the opened hatch.

I stare dumbly at the black square in the ceiling. I shouldn't be surprised, but for some reason I expected him to take me with him on his escape. He got what he needed from me, so I'd only slow him down at this point. I move my eyes around the empty elevator. The control panel still sparks and I vaguely wonder if I'll die in here. The thought of finding myself in the place I'll die has lost it's shock value. I guess I'm going out with a bang. To anyone else, I'm just another casualty in the Joker's crimes, but to me, I've had the most thrilling night of my life. If this elevator's cords suddenly snap and I fall to my death, that'd be okay. I can't ask for anything more than dying happy and satisfied from an exhilarating night out.

My thoughts go quiet for a few seconds. I'm at a total loss of what to do now. I guess just wait. Another few seconds pass and I'm already antsy for something to do. I look up through the hatch. A white face appears and the darkness. I only stare.

"What are you waiting for?" the face asks.

"I can't reach." I answer dumbly, as I see that even my heels can't help me get through the emergency exit. The Joker rolls his eyes and extends an arm. Removed from myself, I take it and we work together to hoist my weight. What's happening? A ladder runs up the concrete wall of the dim, cool elevator shaft.

"Ladies first," he gestures, and I take the cold metal bars in my hands. I begin descending like it's the most natural thing in the world. I'm confused, but I don't stop. My legs and arms grow tired by the time we reach the bottom. We emerge in the chilly night through a strange back entrance. The Joker retakes my wrist and we start running through the back alleys of Gotham.

I should stop; I should get away. I really shouldn't be following him. It'd be easy, I think. He wouldn't be able to chase me. All of this makes sense, but for some reason I don't want to leave his side. That can't be right- my thoughts are cut short when the Joker abruptly stops, causing me to lightly collide with his back. We're at the entrance to some building. Before I can figure out where we are, he kicks the door in with one swift movement and we're moving again.

And we're not.

He's still got a clutch on my wrist as he considers a hat display in front of us. Looking around in the dim, moonlit room, this place looks like the cheaper, male equivalent of Fancy Lady. The Joker fits a porkpie hat to his skull, but quickly discards it with a nearly silent noise of disapproval. He rifles through a few more before settling on a fedora. He releases my hand and fingers the brim. A giggle escapes my lips, causing him to turn sharply to face me.

"What?" he asks, confused but not offended.

"Oh, nothing nothing…" I say, poorly hiding my grin, "it's just that hat makes you look like a tool, that's all." I shrug.

He looks slightly taken aback, but smiles hesitantly, throwing that hat over his shoulder and grabbing the next one. He drops a bowling hat on his head and spreads his arms to display his new image.

"Better?" he asks sarcastically and rhetorically while shrugging out of his purple blazer, "Hold this," he commands without explanation, thrusting the coat into my hands. I take it without thinking and watch as he jerks coat hangers holding trench coats from their rack and slinging them to the floor. After discarding half the rack, he chooses a coat without any obvious reasoning. He quickly thrusts his arms through it and retakes his grasp on me, rushing back outside.

My scrambled thoughts finally begin putting themselves back together. Everything's gone by so fast it hardly seems real. We now walk along the sidewalk, along the length of a massive brick building. We're frighteningly alone.

We speed down a sidewalk for less than a block before a siren splits the night air. The Joker picks up the pace for a few seconds while the sirens near. Then, he suddenly flings me into the building we walk along. My breath is nearly knocked out of me as my back collides with the cold brick. I silently take the pain, clenching his coat to my chest, bracing myself.

This is it; he's finally going to kill me. I'm surprised I made it this far. I can't say these last few hours have been a waste. It's been fun and interesting and thrilling. I had fun, but for some reason, I'm terrified. I want to smile, but I can't. I look up into the last face I'll ever see.

I meet his eyes just before his mouth meets mine and his arms bring me into him. He firmly holds the small of my back with one arm, the other cradling my head. I'm frozen for a second before my heart starts twisting and whipping around in my chest. I pull back gently, without full force, but the Joker remains unyielding. I should try again, but I really can't make myself. I'm not sure if it's just the pure lust mixed with fear, or if I've suddenly imagined that there's a handsome man under all that make up, but I don't necessarily hate what's happening. I'm almost into it. The closeness, the warmth, the pressure of his body against mine, and the sirens whizzing by somehow flow into the moment.

And suddenly he pulls away. Our lips separate and I start breathing fresh, cool, air. I swallow and let my heart grow steady as goosebumps begin rising on my skin. The Joker flashes yellow teeth and doesn't move away.

"How'd it taste?" he smirks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. I scrunch my face briefly when I identify the taste in my mouth; the paint is bitter and lingering, but perhaps not entirely awful. The man releases me and removes his hat. I'm hit with chills without his warmth. He presses the stolen hat to my head; the brim falls over my eyes. As I raise to my eyebrows and see him strip the stolen coat.

"Trade ya." he says, blinding me with the trench coat and snatching the purple one from my hands. I huff and throw the coat back as a reaction, still frazzled from the passionate kiss. I mean, it makes sense. The cops wouldn't bother a couple smooching sweetly in the night. I don't know if I feel embarrassed for being used, or because my mind forgot for a second who's lips were pressed to mine. He catches his coat without blinking, then takes my wrist, once again, and begins dragging me to- who knows?

"No, wait-" I say, stopping and attempting to take my arm back. The Joker stops but doesn't release me.

"What?" he asks, genuinely confused.

"I can't go with you, I have to go home."

He screws his face up as if he just heard the stupidest thing in his entire life.

"Why?" he asks as if the answer wasn't obvious.

"Well…" I pause. Is he serious? "Well, I'm cold and these shoes hurt and I'm tired and-"

"You complain a lot." he tells me, rolling his eyes and throwing the trenchcoat back to me.

I huff irritably.

"Now you're not cold, and-" he slides the oversized jacket over my shoulders and, from there, he smoothly scoops me into his arms. "And now, you don't need your shoes." he laughs, throwing his head back, and begins walking. I hook an arm around his neck, extremely tense, not super comfortable with being carried.

"C'mon, relax." he says jokily, bouncing me slightly to readjust his grip. I tense even more and shiver. Feeling it, he laughs again. "Take a nap, even. Fix your tired problem." he says. Something about his voice seems to have changed, like I can hear the excitement is over by his tone. Now I chuckle softly.

"Yeah, fall asleep in the arms of a killer. Sounds like a good idea." I sigh; I am really tired. The adrenalin finally draining from my system, taking all my energy with it.

"Most people call me an _insane_ killer." he tells me calmly. His voice is… soothing. No, that can't be right.

"Eh, I wouldn't say insane… maybe something else. I don't know, I'm probably drunk." I yawn, but I'm staying awake. "Or, are you insane?" I wonder aloud.

"I'm not." he answers immediately. "I'm just a man, like any other."

"Most men don't wear makeup." I mumble. I'm answered with a breathy chuckle.

 _ **Thanks all for reading, please let me know if you find any glaring typos that pull you out of the story. Hopefully I have some old fans returning from before my super long break. And hopefully I have some new fans, too. Anyways, I'll see you guys next chapter. Hope you enjoyed the story!**_


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